


This Never Happened

by archestofenemies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archestofenemies/pseuds/archestofenemies
Summary: England/France: England finds out France is pregnant with their baby. A tragic love story, not a horror story, although still somewhat terrifying. De-anon from the kink meme.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> uhh... i don't remember writing this??? lmao

It took two months to track Francis down, but Arthur finally found him holed up in a small cabin on the northern edge of his former territories, far from any sign of civilization. He had almost given up, but strove forward in his quest, determined to find that sore loser and bring him back home. Not that he cared about Francis' well-being or anything, it just felt unsettling to have his enemy wandering about the American continent by himself, where no one could keep an eye on him and whatever mischief he was planning.

With a victorious smirk, Arthur dismounted in a jangle of spurs, and ignoring the nanny goat staring at him, pounded loudly on the door.

"Francis, I know you are hiding in there. Open up!"

There was a loud crash from somewhere inside, and a few minutes of silence. Tired of waiting, Arthur was about to kick down the innocent door when it opened to show Francis' haggard face and the muzzle of a gun.

"Good Lord, what happened to you? I didn't beat you that badly," Arthur said, holding his hands up in astonishment.

"Leave me alone. You do not want to be here, trust me."

Francis lowered the gun slowly, and it was then Arthur noticed the other's unkempt appearance, loose white shirt not quite hiding the roundness of his belly.

"You- you've… gotten fat." Even though that was patently impossible, as Francis had never looked fat and always took great pains to point out Arthur's laxness in staying slim.

"You wish it was fat," Francis murmured, smiling like a person who had peered into the abyss of insanity several times but did not actually step over the edge. "Actually, I am pregnant, monsieur Arthur. With your child, no less."

"…What? But… that's, that's inconceivable!"

" _Au contraire, mon cher_ , as you can obviously see."

"This can not be happening." Arthur could not stop staring at Francis' bulging midsection now, eyes wide with shocked fascination. "You are a man, and… How do you even know it's a baby?" It could have been… actually, he had no idea what else it could be, but there was no way it could be a baby, he was sure nature did not work like that, and refused to contemplate the idea that perhaps something occult was at work here.

Francis mumbled something about fat not being able to kick one's stomach from the inside. He then sighed and said, "I do not want to deal with you now, so if you will excuse me, I shall be going back to bed."

"Wait, Francis!" Arthur shouted, following him through the door. "H-how do you know it's mine? Are you sure it's not…?" Though he already knew the answer, at their last battle several months ago, where he had claimed victory upon Francis' body (twice) in what now turned out to be a very unwise decision. And that was the last time anyone had seen Francis, he realized.

Francis merely gave Arthur a withering look and crawled under the covers, promptly falling asleep.

Cursing to himself, Arthur closed the door and took off his coat and gloves. There was no way Francis could be removed in such a state, the very idea was humiliating and preposterous, and until he could figure out what to do, he would not be able to leave. Unfortunately, Arthur had had little experience with pregnant persons, all females up to this point, and the few options available to him seemed exceedingly dismal.

He had to admit, Francis looked much nicer unconscious, although that had always been the case, and if you squinted, you might have mistaken him for a handsome (if flat-chested) young woman with child. Hesitantly, Arthur reached out to touch that long golden hair spread out on the pillow, to brush a strand out of Francis' face, but his hands were trembling too much and he knew he would wake Francis up. He pulled his hand back, a fresh wave of guilt and nausea overcoming him, and tried his best to not cry.

* * *

His sleep did not give him any rest, and eventually Francis opened his eyes. Arthur was hovering at his bedside like a gloomy-faced angel, and as soon as he noticed Francis had woken up, asked, "Are you feeling all right, Francis?"

Francis nodded, smiling grimly at Arthur's look of concern, and accepted the cup of hot tea pressed into his hands, after sniffing it for any trace of arsenic. Sitting up, he took a sip, attempting to relax, but it was difficult with Arthur watching him like that.

"I thought you would be gone by now, _rosbif_."

"I would have to be a monster to do that. And before you say anything, I am not one!" Arthur ran a hand through his mussed-up hair and took a deep breath. "Look, Francis… I am staying with you, no matter what. We… we will get through this."

" _Merci_ …" Francis replied softly, not meeting Arthur's eyes. "But if you want to leave, Arthur, I will not mind. I know I must look disgusting, and… I am not sure I want to keep it."

"Don't talk like that," Arthur muttered, unable to believe that he was saying such a thing to his most hated enemy. "Just, don't."

They sat there in uncomfortable silence for a few more minutes as Francis finished the tea. Then Arthur cleared his throat and asked, "May I see…?"

Francis pushed the blanket to one side, struggling slightly to lift the hem of his shirt up. Doing his best to not blush, Arthur reached forward tentatively, only to have his hand grabbed and placed squarely on the distended belly. He gasped, feeling a distinct movement underneath his palm, and Francis bit his lower lip at the sudden pang.

"See? He knows his father. His other father."

"He? It's a boy?" Arthur asked wonderingly.

Francis nodded, a tremulous smile on his lips, and Arthur thought he had never looked so gorgeous. "Yes, I think so."

Arthur laid down next to him, continuing to stroke Francis' stomach with gentle motions, still amazed that the unborn child could sense and recognize him. He wondered why Francis did not let him know about this before, but he could understand the other man's reluctance to speak to anyone, he would have felt traumatized (possibly suicidal) himself. But what was next for them? How might their relationship change after the baby was born? Dear God, what was their baby going to be like?

Still a little stunned, Arthur leaned forward and kissed Francis on the cheek, softly and hesitantly. "I think you look beautiful, Francis, and I… I want our child, honestly I do. And I know you want to keep him as well, don't lie."

'…Our child…' Francis did not miss that, and he allowed himself a small measure of hope.

But he only asked aloud, "How do you know that I am lying about that?" pouting, though he could feel his heart beating faster, his cheeks heating up, tears threatening to drip down his face in an unlovely manner.

"Because there is not a drop of wine in the house, you stupid git."

* * *

Even though they had the occasional scuffle or argument, appropriately subdued out of concern for the baby's health, somehow, against all odds, Arthur and Francis were able to ease into their new life together. To Francis' frustration, Arthur fretted about him and the baby constantly.

For one thing, Arthur thought they were too far away from a doctor if something should go wrong, and Francis pointed out that their kind did not die easily, and if this abomination against God had not killed him already, then he would survive. Arthur clearly disagreed, and he silently worried about the logistics of the birthing process in the deep of the night.

Secondly, Arthur's cooking had not improved over the years and had maybe even deteriorated since Francis last tried it, and so he had to cook for the both of them in an effort to preserve his and the baby's tastebuds. This Francis did not mind as much as the intermittent nausea in the mornings, but at least Arthur was there to keep the hair out of his face, to rub his back and give him water and comfort.

Their nights were awkward, to say the least, the two of them pressed close on the small bed, legs and arms tangling. Francis remembered how they had slept together as children, but that had been lifetimes ago, and now he was with child, which he sometimes felt must be punishment from above for any number of sins he had committed. Because of the baby, Francis could not sleep on his side for long, and lying on his back made it hard to breathe. After some thought, Arthur came up with a solution, to place a rolled up blanket under his knees, which eased the strain on his back. And with someone to keep him warm during the cold nights, Francis finally could sleep soundly.

As for Arthur, all he could do was give his support during Francis' bad days, when he would scream and weep and threaten bodily harm to the lout who did this to him, i.e., Arthur, and he would have to go out and hide the gun and knives until the tantrum subsided. But they had to use the gun and knives eventually, to hunt and fish and supplement the suddenly dwindling supply of food in the pantry.

It was because Francis did not expect him here, Arthur knew, and he had to do something about that before it was too late to go traveling and leaving his… his… the person carrying his child alone to deal with the wolves and bears and whatever else lurked in the wilderness. To tell the truth, it was a miracle Francis survived on his own this long, but the withdrawal of alcohol had probably sharpened his wits.

"Francis, I am going to town, we need to buy more supplies," he announced one morning, after Francis cleared the table of their meager breakfast.

"Ah, wait, Arthur, I want to come with you!"

Arthur had to grab him by the shoulders to stop him from getting ready. "Certainly not! You're almost eight months pregnant, you are not going anywhere. Stay here, and take care of yourself and the baby while I am gone."

Blue eyes welling up with tears, Francis hissed, "You are leaving me, aren't you? I knew it. Gone to court some peasant girl while I waste away here! I can not believe I was taken in by your lies!" He was starting to screech at the top of his lungs now - Francis had a tendency to screech, even before he had a fetus growing in his abdomen - and Arthur suppressed a sigh while Francis switched to some creative cursing in French, finally ending with, "You boorish villainous wretch with hideous fashion taste! I hate you!"

After he was certain Francis had finished screaming, Arthur said as calmly as possible, "No, I am not abandoning you, idiot, though your behavior is not really convincing me on that account. I just can not stay here knowing that I couldn't provide something better for you two." He pulled the sobbing Francis closer, kissing him, his unspoken promise to return. "I have stayed with you this long, haven't I? Please think better of me, Francis."

"…Get me something good to eat, bastard," Francis muttered, sniffling.

"Selfish frog…"

"Very well, get the baby something good to eat. Please."

He could not argue with that, and so Arthur departed for the closest trading outpost, almost three days of riding to the south, hoping everything would be all right while he was away.

* * *

Arthur was within sight of the town when a small bird chirped and landed lightly on top of his horse's head. Smiling to himself, he untied the message from the bird's leg and let it return to its master. On the scrap of parchment, Francis had written out a lengthy list of items for Arthur to purchase, most of which he would not be able to find this far from civilization. He would do his best, though, for his ladylove, who was neither a lady nor his love.

* * *

Francis was waiting for him by the time he returned home, standing barefoot on the doorstep with milk pail in hand, like some unnatural yet heart-warming vision of motherliness. Not surprisingly, he refused to give Arthur a welcome-home kiss and glared daggers at him the entire time they unpacked the food.

"What is this?" Francis asked out of nowhere, holding a large box tied with a ribbon.

"It's for you, of course," Arthur answered, untying the ribbon and handing it to Francis, who took it suspiciously. "Something to help you feel better."

"Wine?" A much too hopeful glint in his eyes.

"Err… no." Though perhaps Arthur should have gotten some for himself.

Frowning, Francis sat down on the bed and opened the box, rummaging through the paper, and Arthur resumed setting the table for their dinner, his heart pounding much too loudly and rapidly. When he looked over his shoulder at Francis, he saw that the other man had found the hairbrush and was now happily brushing his hair, which had grown long during the isolation, almost past his shoulder blades. Unable to resist himself, Arthur went over to him, watching Francis gather those shimmering golden locks and tying them back with the ribbon.

"Here, put this on." He helped Francis wriggle out of his shirt and then tugged the new dressing gown down over his shoulders, trying hard to not grin too much at Francis' astonished expression.

"Arthur, this makes me look like a woman," Francis complained, though he was obviously enamored with the silky material of the gown. "I am not your woman, _mon chou,_ I am a man. Why, if I had won that battle, it would be you wearing this, not me!"

"I know, I know, and the thought keeps me up at night sometimes," Arthur said dryly. "Come, dinner is waiting."

Their meal passed by without much incident, and Francis actually seemed quite pleased that Arthur brought back maple syrup, which he had been craving for months. It took every ounce of his will to keep from drinking the entire bottle, but at least he remembered to thank the person who bought it. Arthur blushed and said it was nothing, though he grinned foolishly for the rest of their dinner, like a kid with a secret he could not wait to tell.

Francis got up to put the dishes away, but before he could pick up a plate, Arthur stood up and held his hand in both of his own.

"I can't believe I'm saying this to you, of all people," Arthur stammered, red-faced but determined. "Francis Bonnefoy, would you please accept this token of… of my regard for you?" Arthur pulled something out of his pocket and Francis stared dumbly at the golden ring sliding onto his finger.

"What - what is this?"

"It's a ring. I thought you would like it." Ah, this was not turning out as romantic as he had hoped.

Francis narrowed his eyes warily. "Are you mocking me, monsieur Arthur Kirkland? Because if so, this is a very unfunny joke and I do not appreciate it!"

"You don't want the ring?"

"No, I do want it!" Francis snatched his ringed hand away and held it protectively.

"Then… what?"

"I- I do not trust you, Arthur, and I see through your feeble attempts to win me over, and I will have you know that you cannot pull the wool over my eyes like you do with Antonio and all the rest." But what Francis did not say is that he felt insulted that this baby, their baby, that he had not wanted to carry, was the only thing that Arthur found worth loving in him, and all of those years of trying to gain Arthur's favor had made him look like a fool. And now that he thought about it, how stupid he had been and will probably continue to be, he started crying again.

Arthur stared at this maddening, frustrating person before him with a helpless expression on his face. "Francis… I don't know what's going on, but… I was only trying to make you happy. We started off wrong, I am sorry about that, and now I want to make things right with you. I care about the baby, and I care about you, too, that is the truth."

"Are you sure?"

"Have I lied to you? Recently?"

He had not. Francis dabbed his eyes on a handkerchief and did not pull away when Arthur embraced him carefully, making soothing noises and earning a kick in the shins for his effort.

"If you want to prove your love to me, then you will have to do better than material gifts…" Francis looked over at the bed pointedly, and Arthur laughed before realizing he was not joking.

"Oh my God, are you serious? I mean… the poor baby…" My poor eyes, Arthur finished silently.

"Arthur, I have not had alcohol or sex in the past six months. If you are not going to give me one, then you had better give me the other."

* * *

Never before in his life had Arthur contemplated making love to a pregnant man, much less his pregnant rival, but here he was, attempting to kiss Francis while trying to not bump his stomach too hard. At least with the long hair and dress, Francis could still pass off for a woman, if one decided to not look down between his legs. Eventually, though, Arthur had to, and he shuddered deeply at the incongruous sight.

"What are you waiting for?" Francis muttered impatiently. " _Mon dieu_ , I am sleeping with an amateur."

"I can't very well do the same thing I did last time, Francis."

"I am sure you can think of something, you are very creative."

With a sigh, Arthur lifted the hem of the gown up and shyly kissed Francis' navel, caressing the growing bulge. I am so sorry, he mouthed to the baby, and then ducked down to kiss the inside of Francis' thighs.

It took a while, since Arthur had absolutely no experience in what pleased his worst enemy, his best friend, for obvious reasons, but at last, Francis deemed his disappointing efforts good enough – for now - and settled back into the pillows with a sleepy satisfied sigh. After Arthur came back from rinsing his mouth out and praying to God for forgiveness, a now fully awake Francis decided he needed to demonstrate what he had been expecting and did not get.

The two spent the rest of the night with that, as if to make up for lost time and unsaid words, and it was nearly dawn before they finally fell asleep, holding each other in something a little closer to love than hate.

* * *

The closer they got to the expected due date, the more nervous Arthur became, wearing a groove in the floor with his pacing. At his wit's end, Francis suggested Arthur construct something for the baby, like a cradle or a toy, which he did, working at a feverish pace for the next week sawing and hammering and carving until they had not just a lovely cradle, but a complete set of toy animals and figures as well. He then spent the rest of the waking hours embroidering the baby's blanket with leftover thread and ribbons, until there was no more space to decorate.

"Arthur, you need to calm down. Everything will turn out fine," Francis whispered to him as they lay in bed. Arthur sighed and burrowed his nose into Francis' chest, pressing his lips to the cloth.

"I can not help worrying. You don't even have… milk," Arthur mumbled, not needing to finish the rest of his sentence.

"That is what the goat is for. But if you are so worried, why not go look for a mother wolf or a she-bear or something?"

Arthur seemed to consider this, then shook his head. "I think that would taste bad."

* * *

The cramps were getting worse, and Francis was soon bed-ridden, unable to get up except to relieve himself.

"He wants out, Arthur," Francis sobbed quietly one morning, grabbing the other man and shaking him weakly. "Get him out, get him out, I can not bear this anymore."

Then it was Arthur's turn to do the comforting, with tea and biscuits (that he did not make) and syrup and gentle kisses and lullabies to soothe them both.

* * *

Francis did not remember the birthing process, he must have been knocked unconscious at the time by an unusually considerate Arthur, and perhaps it was better he did not know what happened, judging from the amount of bloody sheets they had to wash later. When he woke up, too numbed to feel much pain, a very exhausted but very proud Arthur handed him the infant, wrapped in his colorful blanket.

"Look at our child, Francis. Isn't he beautiful?" he whispered, leaning forward to kiss the other on the mouth.

" _Oui_ ," Francis agreed, admiring the sleeping boy's golden hair, his soft pink skin and tiny fists. "For one thing, he does not have your eyebrows."

Arthur decided to ignore that jab for the moment, feeling too relieved and content. "I thought you were going to die. I was worried."

"I could not leave you two behind by yourselves…" Francis murmured, as the baby opened his eyes, eyes the shade of bluebells in the spring, and stared up at his parents curiously.

"Have you decided on a name?" Arthur asked, his heart swelling with happiness at the impossibly peaceful scene before him.

"His name is Matthew. Matthew Williams." Francis looked up from cuddling the infant, and Arthur smiled fondly at the other's defensive pout.

"I could not have chosen better, love. Now, if you will pardon me, I have to faint." And he did.


	2. epilogue

Matthew was the sweetest baby imaginable, positively cherubic, never crying or fussing much, to the point that they sometimes forgot why they were holding a flask of warm milk in their hands. But other than that, Arthur took to parenthood enthusiastically, and he and Francis resumed their intimate relations as soon as he recovered enough to do so, though Francis was understandably now more eager to play the role of the husband than the wife. It spoke of his regard for Francis that Arthur did not object to this and instead welcomed the new sensation of being romanced and pleasured and simply loved.

Yet something so wonderful could not last forever, and this strange rose-tinted affection between them began to fade as the summer blossoms wilted, the autumn fruits fell, and the leaves turned to red and gold and then brown. Francis began to leave the house for hours at a time, sometimes days, leaving Arthur to tend to Matthew and wait anxiously for the other's return. And return he would, with his arms full of furs and pelts to trade or food to feed their little family, a tired expression on his face and a distant look in his eyes.

* * *

One snowy day, for winter came early in these lands, Arthur opened the door to find Francis holding a small polar bear cub in his arms. There was an immediate row, Arthur thought it was much too dangerous and he must be out of his mind to think otherwise, but Francis insisted on letting Matthew keep the cub as a companion.

"Why does Matthew need a companion?" Arthur muttered sullenly as Francis introduced Matthew to his new friend. "He has you and me, does he not?"

"No, not forever."

This time there was no hiding behind sweet words and false smiles.

"Arthur, you must realize by now, Matthew is like us. And we cannot stay here with him, even if we wanted to." Francis paused, meeting Arthur's eyes, those captivating green eyes that had bewitched him from the day they first met, and he forced himself to continue, for the sake of preserving this precious thing they had once and may never have again.

"It is for the best that he should not know about this… About us."

No, Arthur could not disagree with Francis, not this time, for he could feel the irresistible force pulling at his bones, beckoning him to catch the nearest ship and cross the ocean to his lonely isle, to go home where he was needed and leave these cold quiet lands behind. He could see the same compulsion occupying Francis' attention. He could not deny it, as he had tried to deny the fact that Francis had stopped wearing the ring he gave him.

But knowing did not erase the hurt, and this heart break he would remember till the end of days.

"I understand," Arthur said quietly, drawing himself up, closing himself off. "This never happened."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's note: And that was how Canada was born of an unholy union between France and England! This is my first and last attempt at mpreg, I hope you enjoyed me not going into detail of how a baby came out of a man living in the late 1600s. Thanks again for your comments/favorites!]
> 
> Honestly... I don't remember writing this at all lmao.


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